The Morning After
by luna-tonks
Summary: This is mostly about Toulouse, because he rocks. It starts right around when Christian finished his story...
1. Chapter One

The Morning After. By Lunatonks  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Moulin Rouge, or Toulouse-Lautrec's paintings, or Satie's music, etc. etc., yaddya yaddya ya. Nevertheless, I am saving up for Christian. tee hee.  
  
A/N: I am trying to be a historical as possible here, so I'm sorry if you don't like the way I portray Toulouse, but that is the way he really was back during his dark period. And by the way, Satie left Paris in 1898. I betcha didn't know that. Ok, so, I'm done. So bear with me here, and r&r!  
  
Chapter One.  
  
Toulouse slammed his drawing pencil onto the table outside of the bar he was sitting at with Satie and Christian. He angrily stood up and shoved his chair into the table.  
  
"What is it, Toulouse?" Christian asked, almost afraid of the answer.  
  
"Some certain artists cannot work properwy when other wude patwons at the bars are stawing!" Toulouse screamed. Christian blinked. Satie turned to look where Toulouse was looking. He found himself looking at two middle- aged men in filthy, ragged clothing looking shocked.  
  
"C'mon, Toulouse, we're leaving," Christian took Toulouse by the arm, and steered him away. Satie grabbed Toulouse's sketchbook.  
  
One of the ragged men stood up and walked over to the table the three Bohemians had been sitting at. He held up the pencil.  
  
"Toulouse, I think you forgot your walking stick!" he called out to the dwarf. The other people sitting around him laughed loudly. Christian kept a stronger grip on Toulouse.  
  
"Ignore them. What do they know anyway? They know nothing of fine art. Know nothing of what an exceptional artist you are, Toulouse," Satie spoke quietly.  
  
Slowly (and I mean slowly, as Toulouse couldn't walk very well) the three trudged up the hill back to Toulouse's apartment. Toulouse was silent the whole way back. It took them nearly an hour to reach his apartment.  
  
When they got there, Toulouse instantly reached for his bottles of Absinthe, rum, champagne, and a glass. Christian and Satie instantly seized the lot of it.  
  
"No more for you, Toulouse. You've had plenty," Christian said, wrenching the Absinthe out of his grip.  
  
"Damn you, Cwistian, give me back my won twue love," he said half- conscious.  
  
"No," was Christian's reply. Satie quickly took the bottles and threw them out the window. Toulouse was quickly pulled out of his drunken trance.  
  
"Satie? What did you do?! DAMN YOU! BOF OF YOU! CURSE YOU TWO TO HELL!" Toulouse began throwing things around. Paintbrushes, glasses, a shoe, anything Toulouse could get his hands on quickly became airborne. "My Absinthe! Why did you two frow it away? Why? I own-wee wove to dwink! And it is the own-wee fing that woves me!"  
  
"Come on, Christian. There is nothing you can do. Let him alone," Satie said seriously. Quietly, Christian and Satie exited Toulouse's apartment.  
  
Toulouse passed out on the couch. 


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I OWN EVERYTHING! IT ALL BELONGS TO ME! MINE! ALL MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!! MUA- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
A/N: Erik Satie once bought 12 grey velvet suits at the same time. He would wear one suit until it wore out. When he died in 1925, he still had six suits left. He also owned 100 umbrellas. Weird, yes, but not as weird as me.  
  
Chapter Two:  
  
Satie carefully folded 11 of his grey, velvet suits (he was wearing the twelfth!), and put them into a large carpetbag. He continued his packing by gathering up the 87 umbrellas he owned and throwing them into a trunk. Satie walked over to his piano, and grabbed all of the pieces he was working on. He threw it all into the trunk on top of the umbrellas. He picked the heavy trunk, carried it over to the door, and set it down easily. All of a sudden, the door swung open, nearly hitting him in the head.  
  
"Erik? Are you here? Oh, you're behind the door. Going somewhere?" a spunky redheaded young girl burst into his room.  
  
Satie looked up into the face of Dominique Colet, one of his best friends, and fellow composers. They often worked together.  
  
"Yes, I am. I told you before. I am leaving Paris for Arceuil. The train leaves at 8:30; I only have half an hour. I'm in kind of a rush, Mademoiselle Dominique, so if you could make it quick." he replied in a hurried manner.  
  
"Oh," she said quietly. "I didn't realise you were leaving so soon, Erik."  
  
"I decided to leave early."  
  
"But why leave Montmarte at all? It's not so bad, really," Dominique replied. Satie began to laugh, but quickly stopped himself.  
  
"I apologise for laughing, Mademoiselle Dominique, but it is bad. It's really bad. It is dirty, drunken, and raging with consumption and syphilis. No, I will not stay another minute in this place. I am leaving Paris, and you should too, if you know what's good for you," Satie replied bitterly.  
  
Dominique frowned and shook her head. Instead of leaving, she walked over to his carpetbag, which was still lying on his bed. She looked at the suits piled inside and began pulling them out.  
  
"What are you doing, Mademoiselle Dominique?" Satie asked exasperatedly.  
  
Dominique smiled sadly.  
  
"You need a wife," she remarked.  
  
"You know that didn't work out between Suzanne and I, Dominique." he replied, suddenly very reserved.  
  
"I didn't mean Suzanne.I don't think Suzanne even knew how to fold clothes," she remarked, "you certainly don't! Look at these suits! You call this folding? You will get to Arceuil looking like a beggar! First impressions are lasting impressions, Erik!"  
  
"Stop folding my clothes, and stop calling me Erik, Mademoiselle Dominique. I'd rather you call me Satie," he replied sullenly.  
  
"Stop calling me Mademoiselle Dominique. I'd rather you just call me Dominique," she teased. And she continued re-folding the suits.  
  
He was quiet for a moment, as he watched Dominique fold his suits. "You don't have to do that, you know," he said after the awkward pause.  
  
Dominique laughed. "Of course I do! I will not allow the great composer, Erik Satie, arriving in Arceuil, looking like he sleeps in his clothes!"  
  
"I do not sleep in my clothes!"  
  
"You don't?"  
  
"I don't! Give that back!" Satie grabbed Dominique's arm. They stared at his hand resting on Dominique's arm. He looked up quickly and met her gaze. He stared into her liquid-green eyes.  
  
"I-I'm sorry, Mademoi-I mean, Dominique," he began to remove his hand from her arm, but she put her hand on top of his, looking his fingers with hers.  
  
"Don't leave me. Do not leave tonight," she said, holding his hand against her face. "Please." She kissed Satie's hand. Satie watched her.  
  
"I won't leave tonight. I love you too much," he replied quietly. He grabbed Dominique's wrists and pulled her closer to him and kissed her passionately. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, praying the morning would never come. 


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: I own nothing worth over twenty dollars. But I won the characters in a lucky hand of poker. Hahahahaha. No, I just own Dominique Colet, and a few other characters I may or may not decide to introduce to the story.  
  
Chapter Three:  
  
Toulouse rubbed his throbbing head and stood up shakily. He looked out the window and cursed the rising sun. He walked into the bathroom and didn't bother to close the door.  
  
"Wakey, wakey," Toulouse muttered. He unbuttoned his pants, and began to take a piss.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Satie pulled Dominique closer to him and kissed her hair. She turned over and looked at him.  
  
"Morning already, darling?" Dominique drowsily asked. Satie nodded, and Dominique moaned, pulling the sheets over her head.  
  
Satie got out of bed and began pulling his clothes on. He reached for his carpetbag and put it inside his trunk.  
  
"What are you doing, Satie?" Dominique asked.  
  
"What's it look like?" he replied gruffly.  
  
"You're not really leaving, are you? Not after last night! Erik, please-"  
  
"Dominique, shut up. I am not going to be pulled into another love affair like I was with Suzanne. I am leaving Montmarte, and I am leaving for good. Do not beg me to stay, it only motivates me to wish I had gone last night."  
  
She stared at Satie for a long time, feeling numb.  
  
"Leave then," she began to cry quietly.  
  
Satie silently cursed himself. "Oh, please, please do not cry, Dominique. It only makes things one million times worse than they already are. Hush, now," he pulled her close to him, and held her. "I have to leave. I just can't stay here anymore. Take care of yourself. Please don't stay here long. Look what happened to.others. Don't stay in Montmarte long enough for that to happen to you. I love you, Dominique."  
  
Satie gave Dominique one long, final kiss goodbye, grabbed his trunk and walked out of his tiny flat. Dominique watched as the door clicked almost silently behind him.  
  
"But I never got the chance to say I love you too, Erik."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Christian gulped down the rest of his Absinthe, slammed the glass down next to his typewriter, and sighed. Someone knocked on his door, but he didn't care. He was too drunk to care. Christian wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and held back the tears threatening to spill down his dirty cheeks. The knocking became louder.  
  
"Go away!" he yelled. The knocking persisted. "I don't give a damn who the hell you are. I am telling you to get the bloody hell away from my door!" The knocking ended with this profound statement and Christian sunk back into his drunken, depressed silence.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Outside of Christian's door, Satie sighed. He pulled a piece of paper and a dull pencil out of his pocket, and scribbled a note to Christian, Toulouse, and the Argentinean. He folded it, wrote Christian's name on the top and placed at the foot of the door.  
  
"Good-bye, then," he said softly. Satie slowly trudged down the hallway and out the door, tossing his key to the insane old woman who ran the apartments.  
  
Satie walked outside, into the streets. He looked at the Moulin Rouge, shining in desolate beauty. It really was as bad as everyone used to say it was. Satie was happy he was leaving. He really was. Even if Dominique didn't want him to leave. There was nothing she could do about it, and they both knew it.  
  
Stopping for a minute to readjust his grip on his trunk, he looked back up towards his old apartment building. He looked at the old sign hanging just outside Christian's window. For a minute, Satie was sure he could hear Christian's typewriter clicking away, and he could see Toulouse painting away at his canvas, but Satie knew he was only imagining.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
A/N: Sorry for the whole thing with Toulouse. If anyone out there has seen Schindler's List, you'll recognise that scene as one with Amon Goeth. I don't think Toulouse is a Nazi pig, honest. I just think he's a depressed drunk who doesn't care anymore. I just used that scene because I like Ralph Fiennes. Anyone who says there is no such thing as British sex appeal, you're WRONG!!!!! Moreover, Satie and Dominique's relationship is one big cliché, isn't it? Oh well! I shall use the cliché as I please! HAHAHAHAHA! YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!!! Err, I'll just continue with the story, then. And I am sooooooo sorry for not updating since forever!!!! ahhh!! *slaps wrist* bad mere! 


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Go away.  
  
A/N: Yes, just about everything I say about Satie is true. Ja, he's strange.  
  
Chapter Four.  
  
Toulouse walked out of the bathroom. He went into his kitchen, grabbed an apple, and searched for a bottle of anything that Satie had not managed to toss out of his window. After poking round under his bed, Toulouse came up with a half-empty bottle of champagne. He climbed out of his window and perched himself on the very top of the apartment building.  
  
Toulouse looked out on the Parisian skyline. In the distance, the top of the Eiffel Tower gleamed in the morning sun. The windmill of the Moulin Rouge looked innocent, merely sitting, unlit and unmoving. The jeweled top of the elephant sparkled like a beautiful star, and the Gothic tower sat waiting in solemn darkness for its next occupants, who would never arrive, for the Moulin Rouge had closed its doors to all. Not long after Satine's death, Harold Zidler gave up hope. His beloved Moulin Rouge had no money, and no investors, and Harold Zidler was left with an empty building, and the dancers were left with nothing but the clothes on their backs.  
  
Yet, Paris still seemed so beautiful to Toulouse. He looked down at the streets and saw a man lugging a trunk down the hill into Paris.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Christian looked at his typewriter. He sat down and began to type the story. Their story. Satine's story.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Dominique Colet looked around Satie's empty room. Go home, she told herself, just go home.  
  
Looking around, she found one of Satie's old scarves. Picking it up, she put it around her neck. It smelled of Satie. Incense, a little absinthe. Carefully, she tied it onto her neck and stepped onto the balcony. She watched the people rush by each other, none of them going anywhere important. Today was just one more day of work, pain, and boredom.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Toulouse went back inside and grabbed another apple and his walking stick. Carefully, he hobbled down the stairs, determined to go visit Christian. As he reached Christian's door, he noticed a note taped to the door. He opened it and began to read its contents.  
  
"Weft.horrible conditions.weaving for good." Toulouse gasped. "Oh my goodness!"  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Christian wiped his eyes and took another glass of Absinthe. He gulped it down, and immediately began to choke at an explosion outside of his door.  
  
"Cwistian! Cwistian! Wook at dis!"  
  
The door flew open and Toulouse hobbled-as quickly as one like Toulouse can hobble-over to Christian. Toulouse handed him the note. Christian took it and began to read.  
  
"Well? Well?!" Toulouse looked at Christian for a response. In response, Christian emptied half the bottle of Absinthe down his throat.  
  
Christian shrugged at Toulouse. "Well, what? What did you expect from Satie? He's young, he's talented, he's not got a drinking problem!"  
  
"Young? Satie is not young! I am thirty-five, and he, thirty-three. How is that young? I am a painter, he is a composer! He is a Bohemian! The chidwen of da wev-o-wootion! He bewongs here!" cried Toulouse.  
  
"Ah, but you have a drinking problem!"  
  
Toulouse's eyes narrowed. And then he grinned. "So do you."  
  
"I can drink to that."  
  
Christian pulled out another glass from underneath an old sweater. He filled the glasses with absinthe.  
  
"To drinking."  
  
"To drinking," Toulouse replied. The two drank their absinthe. Toulouse finished first. He looked at Christian and Christian returned his look. They began to laugh. Quietly at first, and then it became louder. Almost hysterical.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The Argentinean pounded on Christian's door, waiting for his answer. Instead of Christian, however, he got Toulouse.  
  
"Satie's left!" Toulouse grabbed the Argentinean's arm.  
  
"What? He 'as? Fine! Let 'im leave!" the Argentinean cried. "All I needed was to borrow a glass of-"  
  
Here, his eyes crossed, and he collapsed on the floor, in a worthless heap. Toulouse and Christian did not bother to look over at the unconscious Argentinean.  
  
"He left, Cwistian. I just can't understand it, though. Why would he weave wike dat? Was it because of the Doctor?" Toulouse asked.  
  
"It's possible," Christian murmured. Christian thought back to the last time he had seen the Doctor alive. It was three months after Satine had died. New Year's Day of 1900, Christian was sure. He had died relatively peacefully. The Doctor was asleep. Probably didn't even know he was dying. Christian sighed.  
  
"Toulouse, I don't know why he left. All I know is that he left. Just let him go. There's no use in keeping him here in spirit. Just let go," Christian replied, taking another long drink of Absinthe. He belched loudly, and Christian too passed out onto the floor in a worthless heap. Toulouse sighed. It seemed to be going around this morning. 


	5. Chapter Fiver

Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge belongs solely to Baz Luhrman and his team of producers, writers, etc. Lucky bastards.  
  
Chapter Five..  
  
Toulouse looked around wildly. He was back again. Stuck in a room. A room with bars on the windows. His head was throbbing, his legs were cramping. He felt dizzy. Carefully, he tried to stand and hobble to the stark, white door. Toulouse banged on the door, but no one answered it, and the door wouldn't open. He was sealed inside. The room began to spin, and Toulouse sunk to his knees. The room faded rapidly from sight. Toulouse screamed and his voice was consumed by the great darkness that he was rapidly free- falling into.  
  
Panting, Toulouse opened his eye. What greeted him was a happy sight. His studio, an Absinthe bottle, his sketches.  
  
"Nightmare Just a nightmare," he gasped. "I'm not there. I'm not there anymore, thank God. I'm in my apawtment. Yes," he laughed," I am being siw- wie. I'm not insane. Mother just oveh-weacted. Dat's all. Yes, dat's all."  
  
Toulouse was not unfamiliar with nightmares. And lately, all of his were about the time he spent inside the insane asylum.  
  
Ha! Like he was insane! If anyone belonged in an asylum, it was his father. Or mother. Both. They were both crazy. His father-well, he barely knew his father anyway-was eccentric. He'd dress in a kilt one day, a suit of armor the next.  
  
His mother was obsessive. She was constantly worrying about the state Toulouse lived in. She enjoyed reminding him constantly that he was the last of the Lautrec's. She'd always hint that he should come back and live with her. She always would tell him what a prestigious family they were.  
  
Of course, she wasn't lying. Count and Countess Lautrec were prestigious. In fact, his mother and father were first cousins who had married each other to keep the name of Lautrec directly in the family. Toulouse despised it. He despised his childhood. Growing up in mansions, manors, and chateaux.  
  
Toulouse secretly despised the fact that he was crippled. He used to be good-natured about it, making jokes even. When he was thirteen, he put on a tough face, and rarely complained. When he was fourteen, he did the same. But deep down inside, he loathed himself and his crippled body.  
  
Toulouse hated that day when he was thirteen. The servants had just polished and waxed the floors of the chateau he was staying in. Someone had come to call. The doorbell had just rung. Toulouse ran to get the door. However, as he jumped up and began to run, his foot caught his pants leg, and he fell down hard, breaking his leg.  
  
Toulouse had broken his other leg at fourteen. He had been riding with his aunt, perhaps. Or maybe it was his grandmother. But he had been riding, and he slipped off the saddle and fell into a small ditch. Toulouse had been so angry at himself for that. He rarely ever fell. Toulouse had been a good rider, his father had taught him. His father loved to ride, and to hunt. Count Alphonse Lautrec frequently inhabited a hunting lodge while Toulouse and his mother lived in Southern France.  
  
Toulouse was sure his father was disappointed he got a son who did not enjoy hunting and riding as much as his father did. No, what his father got was a son who came on hunting trips to sketch. Toulouse loved to draw pictures of the hunt, since he couldn't do it himself.  
  
Quietly, Toulouse cursed himself. He cursed his lisp, his crippled legs, his repulsive face. No one would accept Toulouse. He was far too ugly.  
  
But at that moment, as Toulouse hugged himself and curled (as best he could) under his covers, he cried. He had never wanted someone so bad in his life. Someone who would accept him the way he was. A girl who would really, truly care for him. Someone who would love him.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
When Toulouse woke up that morning, he couldn't remember the nightmare. Instead he woke and grabbed his cane, pencil, and sketchpad. Quickly, he made his way up to the roof to sketch. As he looked out on the bleak sunrise, he noticed something grim and shocking. Hanging off the side of Satie's old balcony was a girl.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Dominique Colet had risen very early. She could no longer stand her life. She hated everyone in it. She hated Satie with a passion. Or perhaps she loved him with a passion. Whatever it was, however, Dominique couldn't tell.  
  
End it. End all the pain and suffering right here. Right where Satie left you, Dominique thought.  
  
Dominique took the scarf she had found, and tied tightly around her neck. She'd do it this time. This time, Satie's presence wouldn't stop her. Today was grey and the forecast was pain and agony. Why bother with it all?  
  
She pulled the scarf to make sure it was tight. With shaking hands, she tied it to the rail of the balcony. Slowly, she climbed over the edge of the balcony, lowering herself with the rails.  
  
"See Satie? I'm my own hangman. You didn't kill me after all," Dominique laughed.  
  
When she could lower herself no farther, she let go. Her throat began to seize up, but she was determined to keep her eyes open.  
  
The last thing she saw was a funny man up on the roof.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Toulouse was sickened. But he forced himself to look. He recognized that twisted, macabre face. Satie's friend. Dominique something. They were always hanging around together. She had even been in 'Spectacular Spectacular'.  
  
He wondered what had driven her to suicide. Was it a family issue? Did someone you love die? Did your one true love leave? Or did you just lose hope? Did you just forget about life?  
  
For some unknown reason, Toulouse knelt and began to pray. Something he had needed to do for a long time.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Christian looked out his window. He saw a body dangling. Christian looked back at his typewriter. He began to type again. He wouldn't look. He wouldn't look at her. He wouldn't notice that she took her own life. That she could have kept living. That maybe God could have taken her and left Satine, since the suicidal woman wanted to go so damn bad.  
  
Christian felt the anger boiling red-hot inside of him. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to tell her that someone, somewhere cares about you. He wanted to tell her that no one wants to watch someone they love die.  
  
"Satine. Satine! Are you there? Where are you?! You said you'd be here with me! Where are you now, eh? Where are you?! Satine, I loved you! I love you! Where are you?!" Christian cried. Nothing happened. Then slowly, a small ray of sun poked out from behind the clouds and shone through Christian's window.  
  
"Sa-Satine?" Christian began to cry. "You're here. I know you are."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
In Arceuil, Satie was just unpacking the contents of his trunk when he suddenly got very cold. Something was wrong.  
  
Satie had a very strange feeling. "Dominique?"  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
A/N: ahhhhh, I had to, I'm sorry. anyway, I really feel inspired to finish the whole fanfic. thank you everyone out there in readerland who has reviewed and read my story. if you haven't reviewed yet, please do! I love getting feedback! even flames! ahh, the miracles diet pepsi, moulin rouge soundtrack, and a little encouragement from readers can work. GO RANGER WRESTLERS! sorry, I just had to! 


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